“You think I can help it?” Sinclair rested his hands on her shoulders, fingers gripping. “I’m with my beautiful wife, in her wedding dress, on my wedding night. I’m drunk and happy, but not insensible.”
Bertie squeezed the very hard thing beneath his kilt. “I can see that. Feel it, rather.”
“No more talking.” Sinclair leaned close. “I make my living talking. Tonight, I just want . . . you.”
“You have me,” Bertie whispered. “Forever. Love you, Sinclair.”
“That you can say, over and over again.” He nuzzled her. “I love you too, Bertie.”
Bertie again told Sinclair she loved him as he slowly stripped off first her beautiful clothes then his. She said it when he lifted her to the bed and knelt in front of her to kiss his way down her body. And again as he leaned forward and drank her, firelight kissing his bare back and the gold of his hair.
Sinclair laid her on the bed, rising over her, his c**k hard against her thigh, while he took her breast in his mouth, licking, suckling. Bertie said I love you when he slid himself inside her, his eyes intent on hers, and she said it once more when he began the rocking motion that sealed them together.
She cried it when ecstasy lifted her higher than had the dancing and the fact that she was his wife. Bertie murmured it in a low voice when Sinclair collapsed onto her, gathering her against his sweat-sheened body. He kissed her face, her hair, her throat, and Bertie whispered it to him.
“I love you too, Bertie,” Sinclair answered every time. “I love you.”
They lay together, curled into each other, one.
Complete.